


A fixed star

by naughtyniffler



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Angst, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Overdose, Slow Burn, johnlock au, not quite sure where this is going but just a lot of johnlockiness, sicklock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 03:18:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 18,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11591817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyniffler/pseuds/naughtyniffler
Summary: Isn’t that how falling in love so often works? Some stranger appears out of nowhere and becomes a fixed star in your universe.Or, John Watson keeps running into Sherlock Holmes.Then they become roommates.And so much more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Johnlock fanfiction I have posted. It was inspired by [this list of AUs](http://perfectlyrose.tumblr.com/post/101118660910/au-prompts-masterlist-of-lists) from Tumblr. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ski lift.

_Isn’t that how falling in love so often works? Some stranger appears out of nowhere and becomes a fixed star in your universe._

_—Kate Bolick_

February 

It’s Valentine’s Day, and for once John Watson is not single.

He’s only been with Mary Morstan a few weeks, but the two of them have been flirting on and off all year and John needs someone to go skiing with him, since his best friend, Greg Lestrade, bailed in favor of a party held by some cute police officer he met the other day. The timing is either convenient or just the opposite, depending on how things progress this weekend. Either way, on February 13, John finds himself having a wonderful day with his new girlfriend at a ski resort his sister Harry generously paid for (in the form of discount vouchers she didn’t use, because she was too drunk and now extremely single). It's picture perfect and just the getaway John needed.

Until the ski lift gets stuck on his way back to a nice dinner with his nice girlfriend.

“Oh, bugger,” John says when the carriage comes to a screeching halt.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” the young man beside him says impassively. He’s _texting,_ bloody _texting,_ atop a mountain, halfway upon which they are stuck in a ski lift, and also possibly freezing to death in the cold.

“How d’you have service up here?” John inquires, which if you think about it really isn’t the salient point.

His companion doesn’t look up. “My brother works for the government,” he says offhandedly, as though that answers anything.

“Okay,” John says, and frowns. “Er... aren’t you a little concerned?”

“Don't worry.” This with a dismissive wave that John finds very annoying.

John furrows his brow. “Sorry, what?”

“I presume you're concerned about being stuck for an extended length of time."

"Aren't you?"

"Not particularly."

"Okay, but d'you really want to be stuck up here after dark?"

"The sun sets at 5:15. It’s only 4:30, and they have ample time to fix it. Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Shouldn’t be—are you joking?”

This earns John a disdainful glare. “I don’t joke.”

“Fine, then. Don’t be _too_ friendly,” John mutters sarcastically.

“I won’t,” the young man counters.

“So... what are you doing here?” John continues in a valiant attempt to keep himself entertained. Having acerbic comments thrown at him by a stranger still beats dying of frostbite and a slight fear of heights.

His lift-mate gives him a critical once-over before looking back at his phone. “Not what you are,” he says shortly.

“What?”

Another dismissive wave. “Not trying to get laid by my girlfriend of what, two and a half weeks? Really, a skiing trip for Valentine’s Day, how _pedestrian_ of you,” he scoffs, then worsens the situation by allowing, “though you _are_ attempting to compensate for your last disastrous affair—who was he, a football star? You could have done better, he was still in the closet, but of course you remained foolishly oblivious. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.”

John’s jaw drops. “How do you—what?”

“Are you aware that your constant and idiotic questions are extremely irritating?”

“Are _you_ aware that your constant and rude attitude is extremely irritating?” John shoots back.

“I have been informed as such,” the man replies, unfazed.

“Fine,” John huffs.

This is the extent of their conversation for the next fifteen minutes. True to the young man’s prediction, the lift is fixed before sunset, and as John gets off and stretches, he decides he ought to at least say goodbye to his odd fellow rider. When he turns to speak to him, however, the guy has disappeared in a flash of an expensive looking Belstaff (really, who even _wears_ a calf-length wool trench coat to go skiing?). Shrugging, John meets up with Mary and doesn’t pay their weird encounter any more thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Let me know if you'd like me to continue updating, in which case I will set up an update schedule. I have about 5,000 words written at the moment, with each chapter short at around 500-1,000 words. However, the chapters will likely lengthen once the scene has been set.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The (possible) fugitive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am back with another chapter!

June 

One June evening, John is just starting up his car when the passenger door swings open violently, and in a blur of long legs someone flings themselves onto the seat, slams the door shut, and barks, “Drive!”

“Are you mad?” John sputters, but when he turns to look at the intruder he freezes. It’s the same guy from the ski lift four months ago.

“Hello,” the young man greets him, buckling his seatbelt and craning his neck to see behind him.

“Are you—”

“We don’t have a moment to waste,” his companion insists and, because he is certifiably insane, John complies.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the stranger finally introduces himself. He’s texting one-handed again and speaking as though they are not in one of the more bizarre and legally dubious situations of John’s life.

“John Watson,” John says. “Uh, is there anywhere in particular I should be going?”

“Just drive,” Sherlock directs unhelpfully. Then he glances up. “Take this turn.” John swerves.

“A little warning might be nice,” he says through gritted teeth as several cars honk at him.

Sherlock gives what could be construed as an apologetic tight-lipped smile. “Another right.”

“Yeah, okay,” John says, shaking his head. “Are you seriously taking me on the highway?”

“Your dinner plans were cancelled, you split with your ski resort girlfriend ten days ago, Sarah isn’t interested, and your so-called best friend stood you up,” Sherlock rattles off. “You have nowhere else to be.” He leans back and drums his fingers agitatedly on the console. “Are you planning to go the speed limit? It would be considerably more conducive to the current state of affairs if you refrained from driving like a blind grandfather.”

John refuses to respond to Sherlock’s assessment of his utter lack of a life at present, though it’s entirely accurate. “Care to explain what this is about? Are you a fugitive?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Slight miscalculation with regards to a crime scene. Nothing my brother cannot easily amend, but in the interim it would be wisest that I maintain a low profile.”

“Are the cops after you?”

“In a manner of speaking. Take this exit.”

It’s a left-hand exit, which means John now has to change over four lanes of speeding traffic in a very short distance. “Are you kidding?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “If you recall our prior conversation, I neither joke nor kid.”

John manages to take the exit and realizes that they are now 20 miles from his apartment. Sherlock is right, though; he has nothing better to do, and frankly, ever since Greg has gotten preoccupied with his police officer girlfriend, John has had little with which to occupy himself in his hours off of work. “So, you’re British too?” he asks a few minutes later, referring to Sherlock’s accent.

The withering expression this elicits is almost palpable. “Brilliant deduction, John. Really stellar.”

“I’m just trying to make conversation,” John says adamantly. “What are you doing here?”

“My brother was meddling too much in America’s affairs. They threatened lifetime imprisonment, he came to the U.S. and took over the government instead. He is the single most pompous, pretentious, and overbearing man I have had the misfortune to meet.”

“How’d you end up here, then?”

“Bored.”

John glances over at the man. “You were bored.”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

“You were bored, so you just packed up and moved to a different country?”

Sherlock tucks his phone away and asks, “Are all of our conversations going to be this tedious?”

“Sorry, I just don’t see why you’d—”

“Pull over,” Sherlock commands and, god knows why, John pulls over to the curb with a screech.

“What are you—” he starts, but Sherlock opens the car door and is gone. Just like that.

**

If he’s being honest, John searches the news for the next couple of weeks, wondering if there will be any word of Sherlock Holmes. Nothing comes to light. A Google search yields no relevant results, and John spends more time curious about this mystery man than he cares to admit.

“Just be glad you didn’t get caught,” Greg advises him. “There are weirdos all over the city.”

“I know,” John sighs. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know yet what I'll do for a posting schedule, but since the current chapters are all quite short, I'll probably post relatively frequently. The first set of chapters operate on a four-month schedule (i.e. John and Sherlock meet every four months) until the roommate thing happens, and that'll change up the pace a bit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian.

October

John is leaving work late when he hears an unmistakable voice echoing from down the street.

“...I’m intrigued, actually, the last three attempts on my life were significantly better funded and prepared. I expected better of you—but then again blind optimism never did work in anyone’s favor.”

Cautiously making his way towards the source of the sound, John finds himself in a small and very sketchy back alley, only dimly lit. And there, in the middle of it, is Sherlock Holmes and a man carrying a gun. When he steps onto a patch of gravel, both men turn to stare at him.

John could, should, turn and run. Make an excuse, back out, call 911. But he also doesn’t want to leave someone to be potentially murdered. While he hasn’t had military training, he grew up in a rough area and knows how to fight, and he was certainly never one to stand down.

“Better get out while you still can,” the person holding the weapon warns.

“Oh, don’t bother with John, he’s terribly dull,” Sherlock says offhandedly. To the man still pointing a gun at him. Casually. Like this happens on the daily. “I suppose you bypassed Mycroft for _personal_ reasons?”

“Um... Sherlock...” John says through gritted teeth as the gunman wheels around and aims at him instead.

“In a manner of speaking,” the gunman replies to Sherlock, still aiming at John.

“John, meet Sebastian,” Sherlock says, gesturing to the gunman.

_What the bloody hell is happening?_

“We go much further back than I care to recount,” Sherlock continues calmly, “but I daresay we’ve more than exhausted what little capacity for polite conversation we possess.”

“Polite conversation?” John manages. Sebastian is advancing on him. Why is Sherlock not flinching? Not that Sherlock has an obligation to care about John’s well being, but how on _earth_ he could stand there in front of a man with a gun, impassively criticizing how poorly the murder attempt was executed, is beyond John’s comprehension.

“We still have unfinished business,” Sebastian growls. He turns the gun back on Sherlock. John heaves a brief sigh of relief before realizing that Sherlock is now in danger, and they’ve got to find a way out of it. Rather, _he_ has to find a way out, because his weird ski lift friend evidently has some sort of death wish.

“For you,” Sherlock corrects his... companion. “You are sentimental, Sebastian; your ‘unfinished business’ is built on childish fantasies. It was your undoing then, and it continues to be so.”

“I’ll shoot you.”

“I have no doubt.”

The man’s finger is trembling on the trigger. One small motion and it’ll be certain death for Sherlock. And so, suffering from a perpetual need to rescue everyone, the ever-altruistic (or arguably stupid) doctor makes a split second decision to intervene once and for all.

While Sebastian is still focused on his adversary, John knees him squarely in the back, then grabs him from behind in a chokehold and wrestles him to the ground, knocking the weapon out of his hand. At the same time as John accosts the gunman, Sherlock leaps: with one hand he’s withdrawn handcuffs, with the other a small blow dart. Sebastian is apprehended and unconscious in a matter of seconds.

“That was quite unnecessary,” Sherlock says primly to John, looking up at him across Sebastian’s prone body.

John gapes. “He was trying to kill you.”

“Precisely.”

“Did you _want_ him to kill you?”

“No,” Sherlock says as though _John_ is the nonsensical one here. “Do keep up.”

“Keep up with _what?”_

Sherlock gets to his feet and kicks Sebastian over onto his back. “I believe I gathered all pertinent information,” he says, sounding disappointed. “Open and shut, hardly worth my time... I’ll be having a chat to Mycroft.”

John stands and stares at the other man, still trying to catch his breath. “What about the gun?”

Sherlock shrugs, takes the weapon, and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. “No bullets. Do you think I’m an imbecile? Simple sleight of hand, any imbecile could execute it.” He removes an entire magazine’s worth of rounds from his back pocket.

John laughs in disbelief. “Are you _mental?”_

Sherlock quirks the corner of his mouth, suddenly looking much more human. “Dinner?” he asks rather than responding.

And, because John is probably mental himself, he agrees.

**

Sherlock still doesn’t disclose the details of Sebastian, or why he’s already had people attempting to take his life, or pretty much anything. What he _does_ do is take John out to a place called Angelo’s, where John is called his date (Sherlock doesn’t contest the claim), monologue for about an hour and a half, then abruptly get up and leave at half past one in the morning. He is bizarre, potentially lethal, possibly a serious criminal, and weirdly exciting to be around.

The truth is, John works long hours at MGH. He worked long hours all the way through med school. He's done his due diligence as a son and brother. He's settled for a plain, ordinary life with low risk after escaping his childhood town. This is not to say that he’s entirely recluse now. On the contrary; John is a social guy, and he’s dated and befriended plenty of people, yet none of them have made him feel as exhilarated as Sherlock does in their short and stressful time together. Sherlock gives off the aura of being an untamed, unstoppable force of energy and cleverness and something difficult to classify, and John can't help but be drawn to it.

Despite the fact that he’s fairly certain Sherlock thinks he’s a blithering idiot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Valentine's Day party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as these "chapters" are so short, and I might as well be posting them all together in one chapter, I thought I might double-post just to move things along. Apologies if it spams you at all!

February

After the Sebastian incident—which again has no media follow-up, and when John attempts to call the police about it his call goes mysteriously unanswered—Sherlock continues to appear inexplicably around Boston. Sometimes he says hello, sometimes he has a brief one-sided conversation, sometimes he makes a few cutting remarks about John’s day, sometimes he only gives an imperceptible nod and goes on his way. It's the strangest relationship John has ever had with anyone: there is no exchanging of contact information, no plans, just simple and seemingly random encounters here and there.

This February, John somehow finds himself at a massive Valentine’s Day singles party. There’s music, dancing, and when John’s single mates go off and find women to hook up with, he hangs around the bar and plans the upcoming week in his head. He supposes this is his future: nearing thirty, sitting at a bar not even drinking, worrying about his upcoming conference calls and meetings, and considering turning in around ten. It would seem that there has never been a singler man than John Watson.

“This is from him,” the bartender says, abruptly shaking John from his thoughts. She nods at a very fit young man at the other end of the bar.

“Er... thank you,” John says. The stranger winks at him. It’s been awhile since John has been with a man; as Sherlock pointed out, his tryst with the quarterback from Notre Dame went less than ideally. But he can’t just mope around robotically going about his job day in and day out with no excitement or adventure, so he takes the glass from the bartender and winks back.

Out of nowhere, someone descends, swoops the drink out of John’s hand, and seizes the fit man by the shoulder.

And of course it’s Sherlock.

“Oi,” John protests in surprise and indignation.

“It was poisoned,” Sherlock says. He looks tired and markedly thinner than when John last encountered him. The doctor in him is immediately concerned, but there are too many unanswered questions to dwell on a virtual stranger’s health.

“It... what?” John stammers presently. “What are you doing here?”

“On a case,” is the only explanation he gets. Sherlock turns to the alleged poisoner, who is struggling in his grasp. “Hello.”

“Holmes,” the man returns tightly. Something about his countenance is downright  _ creepy,  _ now that John has a second look.

“If you would come with me, we needn’t start a commotion at a Halloween party—horrendous idea, by the way, as though people need more of an excuse to eat poorly and drink excessively,” Sherlock adds.

“Why should I?” the man counters.

Sherlock leans in and says something in the guy’s ear. Whatever it was must have been effective, because the culprit pales and stands willingly as Sherlock frog-marches him towards the back exit.

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder.

“Bye,” John answers belatedly. Then, “Did you see that?” he asks the bartender.

She shrugs and wipes a glass off. “It’s just Sherlock being Sherlock.”

John raises an eyebrow. “You know him?”

“He’s helped us out a lot over the years.”

“What does he do, exactly?”

“He’s a ‘consulting detective’, but nobody really knows what that means,” she replies. “He’s wicked smart. How’d you two meet?”

_ We were stuck on a ski lift, then I aided and abetted a crime, then I tried to save him from a gunman who wasn’t even a threat, and apparently he just saved my life.  _ “At a ski resort,” he says, choosing to simplify it.

“He gets around, that Sherlock,” the bartender comments. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hospital. And Mycroft.

June

John gets a promotion in June. He and his friends celebrate at a bar, but John gets drunk on one and a half beers and ends up with a nasty hangover, which is a bit depressing. To be honest, his life has been just shy of depressing in general; since February, basically nothing has happened. He and Sarah had a brief fling. Greg moved out of their shared apartment to be with Molly Hooper, leaving John scrambling to find a new roommate. Mike Stamford, an old college friend, presented himself. The two have a good time together and everything is peachy.

John thinks of Sherlock every so often. They still run into one another occasionally, doing mundane things like getting coffee or grocery shopping. Each time, Sherlock seems to make more of an effort to initiate conversation; each time, John wonders if he ought to ask for the man’s number. He could use a more steady friend. In the end, he figures that they don’t know a thing about one another, and Sherlock is a busy man who probably wouldn’t have time for a worn down doctor anyway.

Just as summer rolls around, Mike’s sister has to get surgery and asks if the two men could look after her nine-month-old daughter. They oblige somewhat reluctantly and hurriedly baby-proof the apartment.

When they arrive at the hospital a few days later, Mike talks with the doctors while John sits in the waiting room, absentmindedly bouncing Elizabeth on his lap. Lo and behold, Sherlock comes striding in shortly thereafter, texting with one hand, and takes a seat next to John.

“Hello,” John says cautiously. “Please tell me you’re not being followed by an assassin.”

Sherlock tucks his phone away and flashes a smile. “No, the last one was taken care of quite prudently.”

“Are you ever gonna tell me why people are always trying to kill you?”

“No.” Sherlock gestures to Elizabeth. “I see you’ve found new employment as a babysitter. I’m sure you’ll find it more your speed.”

John wants to punch Sherlock in the face, except he’s got a baby on his lap. “She’s my roommate’s niece. He’s in there talking to the doctors about his sister. She’s getting a bit fussy, though,” he says ruefully, trying to soothe her as she begins to cry.

“You do know she needs significantly more sleep than you’re providing at present. The television in her room doesn’t help.”

“Fine, if you know everything, why don’t you calm her down,” John snaps. Besides, he  _ told _ Mike that they should move her crib elsewhere.

In one smooth, practiced move Sherlock takes Elizabeth out of John’s arms and stands, rocking her slightly and making soft noises of comfort that are at stark odds with his rather abrasive personality. John gawks as the baby quiets and snuggles up to Sherlock’s chest, one chubby fist clinging to the collar of his shirt.

“What the hell?” he blurts out eloquently.

Sherlock shushes him, then sits down. “Dare I hope you've brought food for her?”

“How do you know  _ anything _ about babies?”

“Undercover case at a nursery,” Sherlock replies. “My failure to condescend to their intellectual abilities, as opposed to you with all your babbling and crooning and babying, appeared to be well-received. Solved in less than a week, of course,” he continues, and passes Elizabeth over to John. “I presume you can manage a bottle without my help.”

John is about to retort that of course there should be babying, they're  _ babies, _ when a woman steps out from the back room. “You must be Mr. Baldridge's husband,” she says to John, and motions to him and Sherlock. “Right this way.”

“Oh, I’m not—” John starts.

“Play along,” Sherlock says in an undertone, and holds out his hand for John to stand up.

“Elizabeth—”

Rolling his eyes as though John is being terrifically difficult, Sherlock takes the baby back and jerks his head at the door. “Hurry along.”

They walk down the hospital hall, John trying unsuccessfully to suss out what in the world he’s gotten himself and his roommate’s infant niece into. They go through several doors, all of which require a security keycard swipe, and finally stop in front of an unassuming-looking room. 

“Here we are.” The door swings open. “Your son is here to see you,” their guide (John isn't even sure she works here) announces to the occupants as Sherlock nudges John into the room, and closes the door behind them.

Several things happen at once. The man in the bed sits up in alarm; the woman at his bedside turns around and opens her mouth in outrage; Sherlock bends down—Elizabeth is  _ still  _ on his hip, sucking her fingers tranquilly—and retrieves a small recording device from beneath the mattress; the woman attempts to grab at her jacket but Sherlock beats her to it and withdraws a flash drive, tube of lipstick, and giant wad of cash; and, thrusting them all into his pockets, he takes John’s hand and whisks them out of the room. They speed-walk a short ways down the hallway before stopping in front of yet another door.

“Here you are,” Sherlock says evenly, and hands Elizabeth back to John. The door’s placard reads  _ STAMFORD.  _ John snorts in disbelief; the man is completely, barking mad. “Apologies, I was forced to briefly impersonate the couple’s son and son-in-law, and you did quite nicely.”

John gapes at him. “What were you planning to do if I wasn’t there?”

“I had an excuse, but this saved three and a half minutes.” Sherlock puts his hand on the knob. “In you go.”

The door opens: Mike is already inside with his sister, and, head spinning, John joins them. When he turns to look over his shoulder, Sherlock has disappeared.

**

Things get weirder from there. A week later, John’s car is in the shop, and he’s trying to call a taxi. Except, after a few half-hearted rings, a man picks up and says with a British accent, _ “There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?” _

John nearly drops the phone. “Who's this? Who's speaking?”

_ “Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?” _

John glances around warily. “Yeah, I see it.” 

_ “Watch. There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?” _

“Mmm-hmm.” Is he going to die? 

_ “And finally, at the top of the building on your right.” _

A camera whirs. John jumps. “How are you doing this?”

It seems like a reasonable question, but the man only says,  _ “Get into the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you.” _

Absolutely none of this makes any sense. At all. Then again, neither has his life lately. John gets in the car, has a brief and disconcerting (though at this point his bar for ‘disconcerting’ has raised significantly) conversation with not-Anthea, and finally comes face-to-face with the mysterious speaker.

“You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, but er... you could just phone me. On my phone,” John points out. 

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.” The stranger, who is tall and balding, pauses. “You don't seem very afraid.”

“You don't seem very frightening.”

“Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?” For some reason it makes John think of Sherlock’s comment about sentiment—what was it, sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side? As if he's able to read minds, the stranger asks, “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don't have one. I barely know him.”

“Mmm, and I suppose the past year of running round aiding and abetting his criminal activities doesn’t count.”

“They just—it just  _ happened,”  _ John objects. It isn’t very convincing.

The man raises an eyebrow skeptically. “‘It just happened,’” he repeats disdainfully. “Things do not simply happen, Doctor Watson. You elected to engage with Sherlock Holmes. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

It’s valid; John could have backed out at any point, yet his own curiosity and whatever it was that seemed to draw him to danger and excitement has prevented him from doing what any sane person would. But he already dislikes this man and doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s right, so instead John demands, “Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends.” John hasn’t even given much thought to what Sherlock’s life must be like outside of their chance (or not so chance?) encounters.

The man’s lip curls. “You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

John frowns. “And what's that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

If  _ that _ isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. John retorts, “Well, thank god you're above all that.” His phone buzzes.

The man nods at it. “I hope I'm not distracting you.”

“Not distracting me at all,” John replies evenly. This has become some sort of standoff, and John is determined to win.

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

John bristles slightly. “I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business.”

“It could be.”

John shakes his head. “It really couldn't.”

The man falters. Then, “If you do intend to continue your... acquaintanceship, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

Is this stranger  _ bribing  _ him? John blinks. “Why?” 

“Because you're not a wealthy man.”

“I’m single, and I work at Mass General.”

The man casts him an imperious look. “And your money does not stay in your bank account for long.”

No, because it goes towards Harry’s endless treatment bills, his mum’s doctor’s appointments, and his student loans. John does  _ not _ like the fact that this stranger seems to be acutely aware of his personal life. “Fine. Let's say you give me the money, then. In exchange for what?” 

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to.” 

_ Really?  _ “Why?” 

The man assumes a mournful expression. “I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That's nice of you,” John comments drily.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a... difficult relationship.”

_I wonder why._ “No,” John answers, as though there was any doubt. 

“But I haven't mentioned a figure.”

“Don't bother.”

There’s a brief pause in which John refuses to break eye contact, then the stranger says, “You're very loyal, very quickly.”

Why does this hit a nerve? “No, I'm not,” John maintains, clenching his jaw. “I'm just not interested.”

“Hmm,” the stranger muses, eyeing John. “Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?”

“Who says I trust him?”

“You don't seem the kind to make friends easily.”

“Neither do you.”

“Sherlock Holmes has little to do with anyone. Pedestrians, he calls us. He has chosen to interact with you far more than is typical or appropriate. I’m simply wondering why.”

“Are we done?”

“You tell me.” The man eyes John. John eyes him back. “Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?”

“Great,” John says, and stands. “Cheers, then.”

The man makes no effort to stop him. With one last look around, as though somehow that will solve everything, John leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the John/Mycroft scene makes me want to rewatch S1, when everything was pure. 
> 
> Thank you to people leaving comments, it's lovely. I usually don't share my writing, so it's very nice to see others enjoying it.


	6. Chapter 6

October 

Sherlock disappears. The neighborhoods of Boston aren't large enough that two people whose movements are approximately similar shouldn't run into one another at least once in four months, but there is a distinct lack of certain tall, dark-haired madmen come October. This bothers John more than it should.

It isn’t as though he and Sherlock were friends. In fact, he’s fairly certain that the longer he spends in Sherlock’s presence, the higher his chances of ending up in prison for the rest of his life, or, alternately, getting killed. But after his meeting with the strange man who tried to bribe him, he finds himself wanting to see Sherlock again, if only to warn him about this supposed arch enemy.

Everything changes on a rainy October afternoon. John’s riding the T to get lunch when Sherlock boards and seats himself next to John. “Hello,” John says.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks shortly.

“I have plans.”

Sherlock scrutinizes him. “She has a husband.”

John nearly topples over. “What?”

“Your date. He’s on a ‘business trip’ to Chicago, things have been on the rocks for awhile, and she’s trying to blow off some steam. Don’t act like you had no misgivings.”

“Fine,” John says. (If he’s being honest, yes, he did get a strange vibe from his date the first time they talked, but at this point he was so desperate for something interesting in his life that he was willing to chance it.)

“How’s Mike?”

John won't even ask how Sherlock knew about his connection to Mike. “You know Mike?”

“An old colleague.”

“What do you do for work, anyway?”

“I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“Right, yeah,” John says, recalling his conversation with the bartender at the Valentine’s Day party. “Er... he’s alright. Moving out next week. He got a new job in New York, so.”

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock says. His phone buzzes; he extracts it and begins typing.

“Sorry, what?”

“I assume you’ll be looking for a roommate, and I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central Boston. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” His eyes are still trained on the screen.

“You know this is Boston, right? ‘Affordable’ isn’t exactly part of the equation.”

“I have funds.”

“Because that doesn’t sound one bit dodgy.”

Sherlock falls silent, still texting.

John remembers something. “I met a friend of yours, a few months ago.”

Sherlock looks up and frowns. “A friend? I don’t have friends.”

“An enemy.”

“Oh. Which one?” Of course he would have multiple enemies.

“Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

John nods, unsurprised at this point that Sherlock would know everything.

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.”

“Who is he?”

“The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now.” The T comes to a stop; Sherlock unfolds from the seat. “We’ll meet at your office tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock.”

Not really sure what just happened, John nods and the doors slide shut.

**

“You know _Sherlock?”_ Mike exclaims, aghast, when John tells him about it.

John recounts their multiple meetings. When he finishes, Mike is beaming. “What?” John asks somewhat defensively.

Mike shrugs. “He’s a good man. You’ll get on well.”

“Come on, I don’t even know if I’m doing it,” John protests.

“You can’t afford this rent by yourself. What were you planning to do before?”

Defeated, John flops down on the couch and laments the fact that he is officially old. “At least tell me something useful about my future  roommate,” he groans.

According to Mike, Sherlock is 25 (four years John's junior, not that it matters) and has a somewhat ambiguous family history that left him with quite a lot of money, which explains the ‘funding’ comment. He is also apparently something of a genius: after moving from the U.K., he sailed through Harvard at the age of 16, got a doctorate in two years, and then abandoned it all to go chasing bad guys around the nooks and crannies of Boston.

“Nobody likes him,” Mike explains. “I’m sure you can see why. He and I are on good terms, though.”

“Okay,” John says. He isn’t really sure what else to say; as roommates go, Sherlock isn’t exactly shaping up to sound like the ideal one. Then again, who’d really want John as a roommate, save for his close friends?

“Sally Donovan hates him,” Mike adds, referencing the Commissioner of the BPD. “Keeps interrupting at crime scenes, showing everyone up, but he’s their secret weapon.” He claps John on the shoulder. “Good luck, man.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Sherlock thinks he’s some sort of womanizer, then John should be incredibly flattered. But he also rather suspects at this point that Sherlock knows full well that John’s love life is an endless stretch of half-assed attempts and inevitably finding each and every woman boring. A thought occurs as he’s struggling to figure out how exactly to answer the question. “You don't have a girlfriend, then?”
> 
> Sherlock appears briefly nonplussed. “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”
> 
> “Oh, right.” John pauses and rapidly digs himself into a deeper hole. “Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way—”

In a strangely touching gesture, Sherlock comes to John's office at seven o'clock that evening with Chinese takeout and a cup of tea.

“You're tired. Drink it,” he says when John decides it’s probably too late for caffeine. Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don't be ridiculous. You’re a doctor planning to move in with a consulting detective. Sleep deprivation is an inevitability.”

This statement doesn’t bode well, but living with Sherlock can’t possibly top everything John’s already gone through, so he takes the tea. “Thanks,” he thinks to add as they open up the takeout boxes.

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock inquires after a solid minute of not acknowledging John's existence. It would seem that this man is full of non sequiturs and selective hearing, which is frustrating but also somehow intriguing.

John puts down his paper plate. “I'm sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

_ Would  _ it bother him? “Can’t be worse than Mike shouting at the telly,” John reasons.

“I do that too. Well, not at the telly. In general.”

John raises an eyebrow. “You shout. In general. Except you don’t talk for days on end.”

Sherlock casts him a withering look. “Must you  _ always _ repeat everything I say?”

John is about to retort that Sherlock’s depending on him paying the rent, but then remembers the whole ‘mysterious rich family’ thing and clamps his mouth shut. “It’s fine,” he says.

Sherlock has returned to his phone and glances up when John talks. “What’s fine?”

“The—oh, never mind.”

Sherlock steeples his fingers under his chin and looks intently at John. “How many women, on average, do you intend to bring back to the apartment per month?”

If Sherlock thinks he’s some sort of womanizer, then John should be incredibly flattered. But he also rather suspects at this point that Sherlock knows full well that John’s love life is an endless stretch of half-assed attempts and inevitably finding each and every woman  _ boring.  _ A thought occurs as he’s struggling to figure out how exactly to answer the question. “You don't have a girlfriend, then?”

Sherlock appears briefly nonplussed. “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

“Oh, right.” John pauses and rapidly digs himself into a deeper hole. “Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way—”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “I know it's fine,” he snaps.

Does that mean...? “So you've got a boyfriend?”

“No.”

Why is that reassuring to John? “Right, okay. You're unattached, just like me. Fine. Good.” It’s always a good thing, you know, when you’re looking for prospective roommates, to know that you aren’t unintentionally getting a two-for-one deal. Or that Sherlock might suddenly jump ship and move in with some nameless, faceless boyfriend or girlfriend.

It’s probably very intrusive to even be wondering about his roommate’s sexuality.

Then John snorts, because ‘intrusive’ really doesn’t seem to exist when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

What Sherlock says next is one of the worst things John thinks anyone has ever said to him, ever. “John, um... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I am flattered by your interest I'm—”

Oh  _ god.  _ “No—”

“ —really not looking for anyone—”

Nope. Nope nope nope. Abort. Abort. Not—nope. Not what he was going for. At all. Christ. “No. I'm not asking—no. I was just saying. It’s all fine.”

There is an awkward pause that stretches to infinity. Then, “Good. Thank you.”

_ Thank me? For not being interested in you? Am I really that unattractive?  _ “Good,” John echoes. 

There's another long, pregnant pause. 

“Well,” John says, “when d'you reckon you'll be ready to move in?”

Sherlock flinches, like John's jerked him from deep thought, then frowns. “Oh, you're still here?”

Is he serious? “Yes, it's my office... are you alright?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Sorry, sorry,” John adds hastily, realizing that he's doing the repeating thing again. “I didn't have time to plan—”

“You need time to plan moving one item from your current residence to another one? It seems a fairly straightforward process, though you've proven yourself to have trouble with—”

“Shut up,” John says. With anyone else, he'd chose himself for being rude to a virtual stranger. With Sherlock, he doesn't care. “Fine. Tomorrow.”

**

To his credit, Sherlock couldn't have found a more convenient location. John’s commute is cut in half, and he's always enjoyed the energy of the city, so despite a questionable roommate, he’s happy. The move is uneventful, as all moves should be, free of unexplained murder attempts and broken ski lifts. Sherlock has a dubious amount of strange-looking scientific equipment, but John has already decided to pick his battles. 

They coexist without too much friction. Sherlock has mopped up his spills, John has sequestered an area of the kitchen which is entirely off limits to toxic materials and other health threats, and Sherlock’s violin-playing is rather nice at the end of a long day, even if he sweeps around the apartment like John isn't even there. No murderers appear on their doorstep; no fires are set.

One Saturday morning a few weeks later, John isn’t on call, the weather is gorgeous, and, feeling in a very good mood, he asks Sherlock if he’d fancy going for a walk.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, barely glancing up from whatever chemicals he’s mixing together. On the kitchen counter. Next to the tea kettle.

“Because. It’s nice out. Thought you might like to get some air.”

Sherlock flicks his fingers dismissively at John. “I get plenty of air. You’re the one holed up in your office diagnosing patients all day.”

“Yes, because that’s my  _ job.” _

“Is it?” Sherlock tosses a handful of powder into the Erlenmeyer flask. A massive cloud of vapor takes over the entire area and bubbles over the rim of the flask.

Join watches it for a moment, then watches Sherlock, whose head is bowed and brow furrowed in intense concentration. He doesn't think he's ever met a person so strange yet so passionately involved in their work. It's an admirable quality, if frustrating in a roommate. “Fine, then,” he finally says. “I’ll see if Mike’s around.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replies evenly.

“Right.” John grabs his jacket and wallet and heads out the door. 

“Hydrogen peroxide,” Sherlock says from the kitchen. 

John backpedals. “What?”

“We need some.”

It's a fairly innocuous household chemical, though in Sherlock’s hands who knows what it might do. “Alright,” John agrees, nonplussed. 

“Credit card’s on the table,” Sherlock adds. He's now squinting into a microscope and adjusting the knobs.

“I can pay—”

“Take it.”

John hesitates; he despises being a charity case, but his mum’s cancer has taken a turn for the worse and insurance has left them in a lurch. He pockets the card, then does a double take and gestures to the microscope slide. “Is that blood?” 

“Hmm? Oh, no. Not human.”

“So it's blood.”

No response. John, shaking his head, leaves.

**

_ If John is dull, why has Sherlock found himself so inexplicably drawn to the doctor? _

_ He's watched him, observed him, as he observes everyone. It's in the way John handles everything he touches: gently, like those whom have never been treated as such often do. It's in the way he reads the paper, the odd little mannerisms he isn't even aware of, and the fact that he seems to think he doesn't really matter.  _

_ John's mum has breast cancer; his sister (he thought brother at first, and was proven wrong) is a slowly dying alcoholic. John’s wanted to be a doctor his entire life. He grew up protecting his family from the roughest gangs in the streets of West Yorkshire.  _

_ Sherlock has continued to run into John on purpose—at least the times where he wasn't saving his life or being gunned down. The times at the supermarket, in the coffee line, at the park. Of course, the blind idiot probably figures those encounters were happenstance. But in the midst of deals, crimes, and his own loneliness, Sherlock made a point to find himself in the areas John frequents. He hadn't had any particular plans—he had no idea John would be on the T, nor that he would be looking for a roommate—and was, frankly, shocked that John was so quick to agree.  _

_ Then there are the drugs. _

_ Sherlock is mostly clean. But he has days, days where he is crawling out of his skin. He needs something to occupy himself, something to give him purpose enough to want to be sober more than he wants to be high.  _

_ That's what he finds in his detective work; that's what he finds in John Watson. Something interesting, in a line of drab, dull, common people.  _


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wouldn’t have minded,” Sherlock says. “If you’d...” He gestures vaguely. “With her.” For some reason the indifference in his tone stings.
> 
> “Yes,” John says after a long pause, “but I would.”

November 

Given that John has work during the days and sometimes weekends, he doesn’t get to run around with Sherlock much, which he’s mostly okay with. He gets a large enough dose of Sherlock’s unique brand of ‘crazy’ just living with the man, who’s a constant lightning rod of untamed energy.

Their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, is a sweet and doting woman who worries excessively about Sherlock, as is evidenced by the piles of uneaten biscuits left on counters and casseroles thrust into the fridge between vital organs. The first time she gets more than a few words in with John (before either he has to leave for work or Sherlock, in true toddler form, demands his attention), Sherlock gets news on another case he’s been chasing for the BPD.

When he gets off the phone, he leaps up from the couch ecstatically, crying, “Brilliant! YES! Four serial suicides and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Put the kettle on.” And, without further ado, he’s gone.

“I had a husband like that once, always rushing about,” Mrs. Hudson says fondly. She turns to John. “But I can see you're more the sitting-down type. I'll get some tea.”

“You know we aren't married, right?” John feels obligated to ask.

Mrs. Hudson gives him a knowing little smile. “Of course.”

John stares at the fireplace for a moment, then adds, “And we aren't dating.”

“I wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing, dear,” the landlady says placatingly, though John is fairly certain he hears her titter as she turns her back.

**

Around Thanksgiving, Greg and Molly have a row and Greg comes by the apartment to complain to John. Unfortunately, Sherlock is also in a strop due to a nasty case of cabin fever, and follows both men around making scathing observations the entire time.

The two of them finally decide to watch the Patriots win the Super Bowl again, because that's always a guaranteed mood boost, except Sherlock plops himself down on the couch like an obnoxious clingy cat and starts analyzing every single player.

“Enough,” John says firmly, shoving Sherlock away.

Sherlock retreats maybe two inches, so he's not breathing in John’s ear quite as much, and falls silent for an entire 45 seconds, after which he turns to Greg and snaps, “Shut up.”

Greg turns stormy. “I didn't say anyth—”

“You were thinking. It's annoying.”

“That's it,” Greg says, jumping to his feet. “John, we’re going to the pub.”

“Lighter fluid,” Sherlock calls as John, sighing, follows his best friend to the door.

“No, not if you’re going to be a prat to my friends,” John replies.

“It’s imperative.”

“Good, then we’ll make sure not to get it,” Greg shoots back.

Sherlock casts him a withering look. “I wasn’t talking to you, Garrett.”

“Greg.”

“It’s not important. I’ve deleted it.”

“Deleted it?”

Greg looks to John in outrage; John sighs again. “Don’t worry about it,” he tells his friend. “Sherlock, you can get off your own arse, you know.”

“I can, but I don’t care to.”

“He’s going to get himself punched in the face,” Greg says to John. “You know that, right?”

“Obvious,” Sherlock scoffs.

“He’s already got people trying to kill him, so I don’t think that’s news,” John explains.

Greg gawks. _“Kill_ him?”

John realizes now that it probably isn’t on for him to be so casual when explaining that his utterly mental roommate is regularly targeted by assassins, but he’s already resigned himself to being treated as though he’s somehow responsible for Sherlock, and in a way he is. He got himself into this mess, after all. And, as he rolls his eyes at the detective and gestures for Greg to walk away, he can’t help but be rather glad that he did.

**

John comes home at 2am with lighter fluid. He places it firmly next to Sherlock, who is glued to his microscope.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock says, surprising him.

“Well, that’s rather polite of you,” John comments.

“I am always polite,” Sherlock mutters.

John snorts. “Never.”

Sherlock glances up at him, face cast in an odd glow from the microscope’s illuminator and blinking kitchen appliances. He gives a small smile. “Perhaps.”

John shakes his head. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry.”

John stops still. _What_ did Sherlock just say?

“For yelling at Gavin. While he wholeheartedly deserved it, I...” He falters. “Who is she?”

“It's _Greg,_ and who’s who?”

“The woman you cavorted with at the bar. She was obviously interested, you reek of her perfume, but you turned her down. Why?”

This conversation has taken a very uncomfortable turn. John licks his lips nervously. “Er... just wasn’t in the mood.”

Molly had shown up just before midnight and she and Greg reconciled at the pub, which had left John third-wheeling a bit. They always included him, of course; however, there _was_ an interesting woman sitting to his left. The two started talking, and flirting, and he came very close to bringing her back with him, except then he remembered his weird roommate.

He isn’t totally sure whether it was the fact that he didn’t want to be cock-blocked or the fact that Sherlock occupied so much of his free time that stopped him. It isn’t like one tryst would result in total disaster.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Sherlock says. “If you’d...” He gestures vaguely. “With her.” For some reason the indifference in his tone stings.

“Yes,” John says after a long pause, “but I would.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up. He presses his lips together, brow furrowing in mingled confusion and thought, and starts to say something but stops.

John runs a hand through his hair wearily. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he says, and goes up to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written up a bit of sicklock, because of course I have to fit all of the Johnlock tropes in here. I've decided to structure the fic month-by-month now that they're moved in with each other. Thank you to those who have left comments.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes family is proving to be the strangest bunch John’s ever encountered—he doesn’t even want to meet the parents, or any additional siblings. For the world’s sake, he hopes there are none. “I mean, it actually is a childish feud?” he asks the two large children having a standoff in front of him.

December 

It takes two months before John is ready to move out and find a not-insane roommate.

It starts with the sheets.

“Sherlock, what the fu—” John blusters when he comes home for lunch, but stops still because Sherlock is wearing a hazmat suit and crouching thoughtfully on the edge of the sofa.

“Lovely. Tea’s on,” the detective intones.

“I—no. What?”

“I presume you’ve come by to socialize,” Sherlock asserts, getting to his feet atop the couch before jumping onto the floor with a thump. “Your job is tiresome, it was only a matter of time before you’d inevitably abandon it in favor of something easier. Perhaps a return to your babysitting gig. Besides, you’ve been avoiding that paperwork”—he nods at the pile of memos on John’s desk—“for the past 7.5 days. And that dull girl—sorry, the ‘pretty’ girl—switched out of your department. So, tea’s on.”

John blinks, then shakes his head. “No, actually.” It's true that he's been less than keen on work lately, but that's neither here nor there. “Pretty sure you know why I’m... well. You do realize you set my sheets on fire.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says absently, “yes. That.”

“That’s all?” John asks incredulously. “‘Oh’?”

“You’ve already stated the fact of the matter, which is that I did indeed—”

“Ignite my sheets? This is so _not_ acceptable,” John says crossly, “I can’t _fathom_ why—”

Sherlock sighs, “Don’t be dull, John, it’s terribly unappealing.” He spins round and heads for the kitchen, where he swiftly removes two cups from the cabinet. Then he checks the clock. “You disappoint me.”

John follows. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I expected you to come by much earlier.”

“I had _work.”_

“It was for science,” Sherlock explains, apparently switching back to the topic of John’s burnt sheets, “and I assure you, it was entirely necessary.”

“So you just casually decided to use your roommate’s bedsheets for whatever experiment—”

“I’d not expected such a dramatic reaction,” Sherlock interrupts. Like _that_ makes it okay.

“Adam called, from next door. Said he saw smoke. Coming from _my_ room,” John adds angrily. “And now there are charred bits of cloth all over the floor. Which I am _not_ vacuuming up.”

Sherlock hesitates. “I _had_ planned to reimburse you. But then the frog carcasses arrived, which was rather more important, particularly given the deliverer’s apparent inability to—”

Sherlock is officially getting on John’s last nerve. “You,” he splutters, “are _ridiculous."_

“I’ve kept them in the bathroom,” Sherlock informs him mildly. “You needn’t carry on, I’ve put the Purell next to them on the sink, in case of infection. Though your hypochondriac tendencies are verging on the extreme.”

“What is your _problem?_ ” John shouts. “I’m not—it’s not being a hypo _chondriac_ to not want rotting livers next to my toothbrush—”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and leans back against the counter. “Really. These histrionics are quite unnecessary,” he says sternly. “If you’d run along back to your job, I’ve actual work to do. It would appear that the viruses—”

That's when John _officially_ loses it. “Sherlock, it’s—it’s the principle of the thing!” he says furiously. “You can’t go around leaving dead animals and god knows what else all over our apartment!”

“Mm,” Sherlock hums. “Noted. Sugar?” He nods at the untouched mug next to him.

John crosses his arms. “You aren’t even listening.”

“I am.” The detective’s phone buzzes and he starts texting.

“You aren’t,” John snaps. “You’ve zoned out.”

“Suppose I weren’t listening,” Sherlock muses, still texting. “Would that really make it better?”

“Yes. Maybe. No. This is,” John starts, then, emphatically, _“ridiculous.”_

“So you’ve said.”

“You _will_ buy me new sheets. Or so help me god—”

“You aren’t religious,” Sherlock points out mildly. “Your mother tried to coerce you into church, but you're too pragmatic to believe in—” He flicks his fingers vaguely. “That.”

John’s pager goes off. Great. “Fine,” he hisses, seizing his jacket. “I’m working late. Don’t stay up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” are Sherlock’s positively infuriating parting words. Seeing red, John storms back to the office and doesn’t come home until midnight.

**

That spat is eventually resolved. John calms down a bit; Sherlock buys him new monogrammed sheets but pretends they’re a gift from John’s mum, Caroline. Except Caroline can’t afford those sorts of luxuries, so John sees right through his awkwardly thoughtful roommate, but plays along anyway.

The doorbell rings one evening as John is getting ready for bed. Sherlock is closest to the door, but of course refuses to budge. When John, muttering about lazy roommates, answers, he’s so startled he accidentally shuts the door in the visitor’s face. It’s the man who had tried to bribe him.

“Good call,” Sherlock says idly from the couch. He’s crouched on it again, staring at the bulletin board in front of him.

“It’s the guy.”

“Mm.”

“The—do I let him in?”

“No.”

John isn’t the sort to cower, however, so he opens the door. “Sorry,” he apologizes.

The man strides into the apartment without a word to John and goes right over to Sherlock. John tenses, instinctively preparing himself to defend Sherlock. Sherlock isn’t fazed.

“So,” the man drawls. “Another case cracked. How very public-spirited. Though that’s never really your motivation, is it.”

Sherlock looks up and frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your concern.” Sherlock hops off the couch and moves the bulletin board out of the way, intentionally cuffing the man in the shoulder with it.

The stranger’s expression does not change. “Always so aggressive. Didn’t it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no.”

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.”

He seems to have hit a nerve, because Sherlock’s snaps, _“I_ upset her? Me? It wasn’t _me_ that upset her, Mycroft!”

Whoa there. Mummy? What? “No. No, wait. Mummy, who’s ‘Mummy’?” John interjects.

Sherlock turns to John. “Mother. Our mother.” He says it with heavy undertones of _do keep up._ “This is my brother Mycroft. Putting on weight again?”

“Losing it, in fact,” Mycroft says mildly.

John gapes at them. “He’s your brother?”

Sherlock casts him another trademark withering look. “Of course he’s my brother.”

‘Of course’? Literally nothing about Sherlock can ever be preceded with ‘of course’. The man’s a walking enigma. “So he’s not—

Sherlock glances at John sharply. “Not what?”

“I don’t know, criminal mastermind.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his brother. “Close enough.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, looking a lot like Sherlock. “For goodness sake. I occupy a minor position in the American government.”

“He _is_ the American government,” Sherlock says. “Took it over when they told him to stop meddling in their affairs. When he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. He ran the FBI for a few months, but found it tedious. Now he’s in negotiations with Russia.”

Mycroft gives a simpering smirk. “Could it be that my little brother is jealous of my accomplishments?”

Sherlock scowls, then pushes Mycroft towards the door. “Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before you get home, you know what it does for the traffic.”

Hang on. John’s brain is still trying to catch up with what’s happening right now. “So when you say you’re concerned about him, you actually are concerned,” he states to Mycroft.

The older Holmes inclines his head. “Yes, of course.”

There it is again. _Of course._ The Holmes family is proving to be the strangest bunch John’s ever encountered—he doesn’t even _want_ to meet the parents, or any additional siblings. For the world’s sake, he hopes there are none. “I mean, it actually is a childish feud?” he asks the two large children having a standoff in front of him.

Mycroft assumes the same mournful expression as he had during their first interaction. “He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.”

“Yeah.” Then John actually imagines them. “No. God no.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve a piece of cake waiting for you at home,” Sherlock says, and Mycroft allows himself to be shoved over the threshold.

“Always a pleasure, brother dearest,” he says.

Sherlock slams the door in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to do more Sherlock POV, so I think I'll insert some in upcoming chapters. Next chapter (January) has sicklock. I didn't mention Christmas this year, but I'm likely going to keep this going through til next December, in which case I'm sure Sherlock and John will do something to celebrate.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this in a rush before work, may edit later.

January 

Sherlock gets sick, and it is soon abundantly clear that he’s a horrible patient. Worse even than the crotchety elderly woman John’s been dealing with lately, who thinks she’s dying from her tennis elbow and acts like she knows more than him whenever he says something she doesn’t want to hear. Actually, she and Sherlock would get along splendidly.

“I'm fine,” the detective snaps when John asks if he's feeling alright.

“You've been curled up in the fetal position all day, your eyes are glassy, and you're shivering,” John says firmly. “At least take your temperature.”

“I don't get feverish,” Sherlock says through chattering teeth. “I'm fine.”

“That,” John says, “is a lie.”

“I have a quadruple suicide to investigate. Hand me my laptop.”

“You’re closer to it than I am!”

“You’re useless, utterly useless.”

John, who was insulted the first time he received this comment, merely raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay.”

Sherlock tries to unfold himself and get to his feet. He does, but nearly falls backwards and has to clutch the arm of the couch to stop himself. “I’m fine!” he practically shouts.

John keeps a straight face. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it, it’s despicable, you and your so-called _doctor’s_ expertise—”

John’s phone vibrates. He glances down; it’s his cousin Elliot.

_Harry got alcohol poisoning again. Caroline’s in hospital, they’re talking about hospice. Call when you have a chance._

Brilliant. Bloody brilliant, the whole lot of them. He _loves_ his family. It’s marvelous.

“Sherlock, shut it and go to bed!” John yells back, getting angrily to his feet because Sherlock is, once again, on his last nerve.

If Sherlock was in a clearer state of mind, he’d immediately put two and two together and stop, if only to make rude and intrusive comments about John’s family situation. But he’s not _—because he’s sick—_ and instead digs his heels into the ground. “Has anyone told you that you’re exceptionally irritating to be around? Good lord, what must it be like in your funny little brain? No wonder you’ve barely maintained a romantic relationship since college, you and your incessant—”

“FINE!” John bellows, and practically flies out of his chair to grab his keys and wallet. Out of sheer, infuriating habit, he stops two paces from the door and turns towards his roommate, who’s glaring murderously at the upholstery. “Need anything?” he asks before he can stop himself. Why he’s catering to and endorsing Sherlock’s laziness in the first place is anybody’s guess.

Sherlock looks shocked. He blinks. “You’re angry.”

“Yeah, great observation, that,” John snarls. He grips his wallet so tightly his knuckles go white.

Sherlock doesn’t even bother to respond.

Fuming, John gives the detective one last equally murderous glare before wrenching the door open and storming out.

**

John is awoken from sleep by the sound of retching. He’s down the stairs in two seconds flat.

“Sherlock?” he calls gently; the bathroom door is open just a crack, and the light filtering out makes him shield his eyes. It’s 3:30 am.

When he steps in, Sherlock is dry heaving over the toilet bowl, looking so sick John considers driving him to the ER. However, he’s a damn good doctor himself, and dealing with Sherlock in a hospital can't possibly be fun, so instead he approaches his roommate cautiously.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock says primly, wiping his mouth delicately with the back of his hand.

It’s such a ludicrous response coming from this ludicrous man that John can’t help it when he starts laughing. Sherlock looks at him in a daze before the mirth becomes contagious, and suddenly they’re both in the most absurd hysterics, in the middle of the night, in a small cramped apartment bathroom, while Sherlock is battling a severe case of the flu and probably should be in the hospital with an IV.

Finally John shushes them both and, standing, holds out his hand to Sherlock.

“You need to get into bed. I’ll bring a bin, but kneeling on the bathroom floor isn’t going to help anything.”

Sherlock appears too exhausted to argue, so he takes John’s hand and starts plodding down the hall beside him. When they get to the living room, however, Sherlock nearly falls over, and John hurriedly gets him onto the couch instead.

“Right, here’s fine too. I’m taking your temperature.”

“Fine,” Sherlock croaks.

It’s 104, just on the verge of dangerous. “Paracetamol,” John orders, “and try to eat something. I can make you toast?”

Sherlock can only nod. John feels terrible just looking at the man who normally _lives_ for running around being not sick. It must be awful.

John places a compress on Sherlock’s forehead, encourages him to take a sip of ginger ale (after testing it with a pH strip to make sure it’s not some sort of lethal acid), forces him to nibble at the toast, and drags his chair over so he’s next to Sherlock. The doctor inevitably begins to nod off, but jerks awake when someone touches the back of his hand.

It’s Sherlock, who is still in a feverish stupor, and as John opens his mouth to ask if he’s alright, the detective inexplicably reaches over and takes John’s hand, as though asking for comfort. John doesn’t know what to say, so he gives Sherlock’s fingers a quick squeeze.

“I suppose I'm not accustomed to it,” Sherlock mumbles as his eyes drift shut.

“Accustomed to what?”

Sherlock is silent for so long John figures he's fallen asleep. But then, very quietly, Sherlock confesses, “People caring.”

**

The next morning, Sherlock has recovered enough to act like a wounded tiger but not enough to be up and about. Any sympathy John may have had last night rapidly dissipates the moment Sherlock starts insulting John’s caretaking skills.

“I don’t like toast,” Sherlock complains like a whiny toddler.

“Fine, starve to death,” John shoots back.

“I shall,” Sherlock says woefully. “Might I suggest, again, that you look into babysitting, because clearly this doctoring venture isn’t working out for you, your diagnoses are painfully obvious and—”

“Shut up,” John says sternly. “If you’re going to be like that, then I’m going out.”

“And leave your ailing patient to die alone?”

“You are not—for Christ’s sake, Sherlock, you’re not dying!”

“Give me my phone.”

John frowns. “No. What are you going to do?”

Sherlock turns on the television. Sally Donovan is being interviewed about a recent murder.

 _“How can suicides be linked?”_ a reporter asks.

_“Well, they all took the same poison. They were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indications—”_

_“But you can’t have serial suicides.”_

_“Well, apparently you can.”_ Sherlock scoffs.

_“These three people, there’s nothing that links them?”_

Sally shakes her head. _“There’s no link found yet. But we’re looking for it—there has to be one.”_

On the couch, Sherlock sends a text. Everyone’s cellphones at the televised press conference go off.

The poor commissioner looks incredibly pained. _“If you’ve all got texts, please ignore them.”_

The reporter checks her phone. _“It just says ‘Wrong!’”_

“Sherlock!” John admonishes. “Give me your mobile.”

“Actually, I think I’m quite well now,” Sherlock announces. He hops up from the couch, pales, and promptly keels over. John manages to catch him before the madman adds a concussion to his list of _obvious diagnoses,_ and then firmly deposits the cranky detective back onto the sofa.

“You’re dehydrated. If you try to run around, I’m sending you to the hospital.” John presses his palm to Sherlock’s forehead. “Are you still feverish?”

“No,” Sherlock says, shivering.

“Oh, for god’s sake!” This man is going to be the end of him. John pauses in the middle of the room, taking several calming breaths, and runs a hand over his face. Then, “Sherlock. You need _rest._ Take another paracetamol, I’ll stay and make sure you don’t end up passed out in the streets, but _please_ would you put your bloody phone down!” John seizes the remote and punches the power button.

Sherlock clutches his mobile like a toddler with their lovey. “No,” he says stubbornly.

“You’re so sick you can’t even properly insult me,” John points out. “Lie down.”

“No.” Sherlock is evidently unable to string together a list of acerbic observations, which in and of itself is a red flag.

“Sherlock. You’re _sick._ You can’t even get up without falling over. You need fluids and food.”

“I haven’t vomited,” Sherlock says stubbornly.

John rolls his eyes heavenward. “Great, how nice for you. That doesn’t mean you’re healed.”

“I’ve been ill before.”

“So?”

“It slows my brain down,” Sherlock says in frustration, rubbing his pants legs agitatedly. “I can’t _think.”_

John falters. Sherlock is used to operating at maximum capacity—overdrive, really. He moves a mile a minute, his brain is constantly going, and the flu probably slows everything down to the pace of an average human being. As irritating as it is to the onlooker, John has to remind himself that Sherlock is not like the others. He’s a whirlwind of activity, exuding energy at all times. John’s treated severely ADHD children before, and they always make him think of Sherlock. So profoundly, incredibly _alive_ in a world of plodding, dull people.

“Please,” Sherlock begs.

John is startled. “Please what?”

Sherlock gestures angrily. “Fix it.”

“Sherlock, lo—” John catches himself, positively horrified at the term of endearment that almost slipped out. He’s never been much of a term of endearment guy, but in previous relationships the occasional ‘love’ or ‘babe’ was wont to occur, usually when he was trying to reason with someone being unreasonable.

Compared to Sherlock, no one is unreasonable. Sherlock is the pinnacle of unreasonableness.

“Sherlock. I can’t. Only you can. Your body can.” John feels as though he’s explaining sickness to a stroppy, petulant child. “You need to rest, so you can actually heal.”

“No,” is Sherlock’s very convincing argument.

John presses his lips together, then shakes his head and heads to the kitchen to get a glass of water and more medication. When he returns, Sherlock is fast asleep.

**

_Sherlock opens his eyes just a crack. He doesn’t know what time it is, and his brain is in a complete fog._

_He sees John, only a few feet away, sitting in that ridiculous armchair he brought from his last place. The doctor’s left ankle is crossed over his right knee; a cup of tea sits by his elbow. He’s reading the_ Times, _clearing his throat every so often and shifting each time he turns the page._

_Sherlock was an idiot for not catching what had happened to John earlier, with the news of Harry and Caroline. John is so strong, so caring despite a clearly battered and beaten heart, and Sherlock’s earlier words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. That he could say such horrible things, and the doctor would still be here, still be at his bedside, is an utter mystery._

_“Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, neither wanting John to realize he’s been watched nor to come over and fuss over him._

_John has done the latter anyway. He pads over in his ridiculous worn slippers. “You okay?”_

_Sherlock nods ever so slightly._

_His roommate heaves a sympathetic sigh. It’s a nice sound, different from the huffs of annoyance Sherlock is accustomed to. Then John’s hand, cool and soft and gentle, rests lightly on his forehead. “Your fever’s gone down,” he says quietly._

_“Mm,” Sherlock murmurs._

_“Alright, I’ll let you sleep, then,” John says._

_Sherlock reaches up and grasps John’s wrist, not wanting the man to remove his hand from his still-clammy forehead. “Stay,” he whispers, and John does._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is he okay?” she asks mid-conversation.
> 
> “Hmm?” John turns around. Sherlock is standing across the room, glaring at both of them. “Oh, he’s just in a mood. I threw out his hamster carcasses.”
> 
> “He’s not jealous?” Sarah asks.
> 
> “What?” John splutters. “No, never. Never. He—we aren’t dating. I’m single, very single,” he emphasizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jealous Sherlock.

February

John drags Sherlock along to a Valentine’s Day get together with some of his single work friends and quickly regrets it. Sherlock makes cutting but accurate remarks about each person (which John warned them about), then starts interrogating everyone he thinks could potentially be linked to a recent string of gory murders in Roxbury (which John had not been able to warn them about).

John, staunchly refusing to babysit his roommate, meets Sarah (a different Sarah from his previous flame) who’s a very sweet young woman from Tennessee. 

“Is he okay?” she asks mid-conversation.

“Hmm?” John turns around. Sherlock is standing across the room, glaring at both of them. “Oh, he’s just in a mood. I threw out his hamster carcasses.”

“He’s not jealous?” Sarah asks.

“What?” John splutters. “No, never. Never. He—we aren’t dating. I’m single, very single,” he emphasizes.

Sarah smiles.

**

Sarah and John go back to her place. The next morning, they get breakfast together, establishing this as more than a one-night stand. He likes her well enough; she’s smart, and funny, and flirtatious in a youthful way. Not to age himself ten years.

When he gets home that evening, after a second round with Sarah and an impromptu movie date, Sherlock is standing, arms crossed, in front of his bulletin board. He doesn’t turn around when John comes in. Which is fine by John, because truth be told he’s fairly exhausted now.

“No comments on Sarah, then?” he quips as he heads upstairs.

Sherlock doesn’t move. John pauses.

“Sherlock?”

“Nothing,” and the detective sounds somehow horribly disappointed that he’s gathered no dirt on John’s most recent girlfriend.

“You good?” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, so John shrugs. Roommates are weird.

**

Sherlock starts consistently leaving body parts around the apartment. Including John's room, a fact which horrifyingly becomes clear a few months later when he and Sarah split and he's rebounding with the pretty woman from the bar, only to discover a pile of frog skeletons and one pinky toe on his bedsheets. That kills the mood—by which he means  _ sends his potential hookup screaming from the apartment— _ and results in a nasty row between the two roommates. 

“It’s like you want me to have no love life,” he fumes.

“You don’t need a love life. Sentiment is a chemical defect—”

“Who broke your heart?” John snaps.

Sherlock recoils. “What?”

John crosses his arms. “Someone must’ve, for you to be such an insufferable  _ dick _ about my relationships. What happened?”

Sherlock licks his lips nervously. A transitory shadow of pain passes over his face before he smooths his features and sets his chin determinedly. “Nothing. I don’t  _ feel.” _

John gives a bark of disbelieving laughter. “You do feel. You just don’t like it.”

“I. Don’t. Feel,” Sherlock insists through gritted teeth.

“Fine,” John says wearily, “fine. But if you wanted to get a boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever, I can guarantee  _ I  _ wouldn’t be sabotaging  _ your _ relationships, so I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same  _ bloody  _ kindness for me.”

He watches Sherlock struggle to come up with a response, then shakes his head in exasperation and walks away. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is just settling down for a nice cuppa when the door swings open, seemingly of its own accord, and a three-legged Boston terrier bounds in. Sherlock comes up the stairs a second later. He tosses his coat onto the coat rack with a flourish, then kneels down next to the dog. “John, meet Redbeard.”
> 
> John has a lot of questions. He arranges them in order of priority. Placing his cup safely on the table beside him, he addresses his first concern. “I'm sorry, but I have to ask. How many legs did that dog have when you found him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More domestics and Sherlock being nice.
> 
> Things we have coming up: Janine, Irene, Mary (that's going to be a very dramatic and lengthy matter), a death and hurt/comfort, and general UST.

March

John is just settling down for a nice cuppa when the door swings open, seemingly of its own accord, and a three-legged Boston terrier bounds in.

“Hi,” he says, cup halfway to his lips. “Er...”

Sherlock comes up the stairs a second later. He tosses his coat onto the coat rack with a flourish, then kneels down next to the dog. “John, meet Redbeard.”

John has a lot of questions. He arranges them in order of priority. Placing his cup safely on the table beside him, he addresses his first concern. “I'm sorry, but I have to ask. How many legs did that dog have when you found him?”

Sherlock casts him a disparaging look. “Three,” he says scornfully. 

“You leave eyeballs in the refrigerator, Sherlock. It's a reasonable question.”

“I haven’t left eyeballs in the refrigerator.”

“You have, I checked yesterday.”

“They’re in the  _ freezer,  _ John,” Sherlock says condescendingly.

John addresses concern #2. “What are you planning to do to that poor dog?”

“It’s for a case.”

“That really doesn’t answer my question.”

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “Harmless anesthetic, really.”

“You—you can’t drug an innocent three-legged dog!”

Sherlock sighs again. “Fine, I’ll go back and find a four-legged one. Come along, Redbeard.”

John jumps to his feet before Sherlock can wreak more havoc. “Not the point!”

“John, your aversion to ‘the point’ in all subject matters makes it extraordinarily difficult to converse with you. You do know that.”

“You’re the one who’s talking about eyeballs in freezers when there’s a three-legged dog sitting on our living room rug!”

Sherlock is about to retort when Mrs. Hudson calls “Yoo-hoo!” and opens the door.

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Redbeard,” Sherlock says after an awkward pause in which John wonders how on earth he ended up arguing about eyeballs in general.

“Oh, he’s lovely,” their landlady says, beaming as the dog bounds over to her. She pets him kindly on the head. Then, “I just wanted to check in on you boys, Adam said there have been a whole lot of lover’s quarrels lately and it’s waking the neighbors.”

“Lover—we aren’t having lover’s quarrels!” John sputters. “Why. Why does everyone think we’re a couple.”

Mrs. Hudson looks at the two men keenly. “You tell me, dear.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock says briskly, and sweeps past both of them to make a beeline for the door. “He’s not house-trained, to my knowledge,” he informs John, wrapping his scarf around his neck with a flourish, “so I’d suggest taking him on a walk.”

“Wha—where are you going?” John demands. 

“The morgue. Molly’s just told me about a recent death, suspected abuse, and I’d like to inspect the bruises.” 

Everyone regrets the fact that John had introduced Sherlock and Molly. Most of all Greg, because he spent quite awhile worrying that his girlfriend had developed a crush on the detective, so he told her that Sherlock and John are dating—a lie which was uncomfortably believable to everyone else. She was never interested in the first place, of course, but then John had to deal with a number of congratulatory and disparaging messages on his Facebook page in light of the relationship rumor. Sherlock pretended to be oblivious; John’s pretty certain the detective was laughing at him the entire time.

Regardless of that mess, Molly has managed to connect Sherlock with the Autopsy Service at MGH. John attempted frantically to get in touch with Dr. James Stone, the director—including sprinting to his office the second he caught wind of this disastrous possibility—but was too late, as Sherlock had already somehow charmed (blackmailed, probably) the entire department into granting him access.

“Please don’t go back to the morgue,” John requests through gritted teeth.

In response, Sherlock shuts the door. 

This. Man. Is. Mental.

“Lover’s quarrels,” Mrs. Hudson trills, and pats John on the cheek fondly. “You take care.”

**

There are moments. Moments when John finds himself staring at Sherlock despite himself. Moments when words like ‘amazing’ and ‘brilliant’ fall unsolicitedly from his lips (Sherlock doesn't seem to notice anyway). Moments when they've spent all day indoors, Sherlock ricocheting around the small apartment like an unstoppable force, and John finds himself inexplicably and uncontrollably drawn to the maelstrom. Moments when scenes of quiet domesticity prevail and John glances up from his tea and smiles at the sight of Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, quiet and relatively still for once, always concentrating with furrowed brow.

But he disregards those, because Sherlock is married to his work, and dating your roommate is more than a bit Not Good. Besides, John’s always busy with his own job. 

He takes a break from dating. Elliot, his cousin, flies to Boston for a business trip and, at John’s emphatic suggestion, stays at a hotel rather than kipping on John’s couch as he had in the past. Before Sherlock entered the picture and turned John’s world upside down. Harry is still in rehab; his mum is in hospice. John wants to see her, but work and his current budget don’t allow for it.

One day, Sherlock randomly decides to take John out for dinner. John spends the entire walk trying to figure out what Sherlock is up to, because there’s no way on  _ earth _ that a dinner at a restaurant could possibly not end in some sort of crime scene.

“You’ve been stressed,” the detective observes, and holds the door for John. “I thought a night out might improve your mood.”

“I’m always stressed.”

“You’re exceptionally stressed. You don’t talk about it.”

“Yeah, like you talk so much about your feelings,” John scoffs.

“Two, please,” Sherlock says politely to the hostess, ignoring John’s comeback.

This feels suspiciously like a date. They eat their meals, engaging in easy conversation, and finally John tosses his napkin on the table and asks once and for all what Sherlock’s game is here.

“Dinner,” Sherlock replies shortly.

“Oh, come on, this is... there’s got to be a catch.”

“Why?”

“Because. This feels like a date.”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “Perhaps it is.”

This is dangerous territory. Very dangerous. John shuts it down. “No,” he says emphatically, shaking his head, “no. No, this isn’t a date. We aren’t dating, Sherlock,  _ Christ,  _ we’re roommates. We aren’t dating.”

“Angelo thought we were,” the detective points out mildly.

It takes John a minute to remember their dinner all those months ago. They haven’t returned to Angelo’s since. “That—that doesn’t mean anything,” he stammers.

“Mrs. Hudson thinks we’re a couple. Everyone thinks we’re a couple.”

“Sherlock,” John says very, very carefully. “Are you... interested in me?”

“Inasmuch as...” But Sherlock is interrupted by his mobile going off. He holds it up to John; it’s Sally, and she needs them in Dorchester immediately.

“Well,” John says, flagging down the waitress for the check, “guess this wasn’t a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who have subbed and continue to comment!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John runs a hand over his face. "How is he?”
> 
> “Stable. He was lapsing in and out of consciousness earlier, but they have elected not to put him in an induced coma. Right now he is sedated.”
> 
> “Why’d you let me in?” John wants to know.
> 
> Mycroft raises an eyebrow scornfully. “You are the only person I believe my brother comes close to loving,” he states as though it’s obvious. “I daresay that if anyone is to save him, it would be his precious John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst commences. Warning for overdose and mention of drugs.

April, Part I

Everything is fine, until suddenly it’s not.

Sherlock is out on a case as usual, risking his life and other casual things like that. John comes home and fixes himself a frozen meal. Sherlock’s usually back by midnight if he’s been gone all day, or at least has the courtesy to let John know if he’ll be out late.

But then Mrs. Hudson comes flying into the apartment, positively hysterical. “John! John!” she cries. John jumps to his feet, heart already pounding. 

“What?” he asks urgently.

“Oh, John, it’s terrible, it’s Sherlock—”

Pure terror lances through John’s heart. He _knew_ it, he _knew_ one of Sherlock’s goddamn ‘miscalculations’ would go too far. “What? Where is he?”

“It’s an overdose,” Mrs. Hudson weeps, shaking as much as John is.

John had known Sherlock had a history with drugs. But he thought, he truly naively thought, that those days were behind the detective. Deep down, he shamefully admits now, he hoped that  _he_ was the reason Sherlock would have recovered. That he had saved Sherlock as Sherlock had saved him.

“S-someone did it,” Mrs. Hudson stutters. “Someone else...”

> _ “John, meet Sebastian,” Sherlock says, gesturing to the gunman... _

“Sebastian,” John realizes. “It was Sebastian.”

> _ “We still have unfinished business,” Sebastian growls.  _
> 
> _ “You are sentimental, Sebastian; your ‘unfinished business’ is built on childish fantasies. It was your undoing then, and it continues to be so.” _

Sebastian must have taken care of his ‘unfinished business’. In the cruelest way possible, too: Sherlock being a barely recovered drug addict, a near-lethal injection of the very drugs that had only recently pervaded his life could be detrimental. Probably already has been.

They’re flying Sherlock straight to MGH from Hanscom; he’d been out in Concord,  Massachusetts for a cliché case involving an idyllic town with a dark secret. 

“It will be okay, Mrs. Hudson,” John swears. Lying through his teeth.

“No, it’s not,” she wails.

John can't refute it, so he only gives her a quick hug and tries to take several calming breaths through his nose. The apartment is  only a few T stops from MGH, and driving through Boston unless strictly necessary makes no sense. John promises a distraught Mrs. Hudson that he’ll keep her posted on Sherlock’s state and books it to the station.

Sherlock is already in a room when John arrives and gets a briefing from not-Anthea, who looks completely unfazed by it all. Sherlock went into cardiac arrest; they were forced to use the defibrillator and perform CPR on him the entire flight. Respiratory depression sent paramedics scrambling to administer naloxone. It must have been a near-fatal dosage. Mycroft is already on the scene, speaking to a doctor rapidly in a low voice and looking very pale. When he glances up and sees John, he says something to the doctor, then gestures. 

“Come with us, John,” Mycroft commands wearily.

Stumbling over his own feet and terrified, John follows them through locked doors to a private hall. Good lord, the amount of influence Mycroft clearly possesses is insane.

“Only the best for the Holmes men,” he comments to John, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“What was it?” John asks fearfully.

Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut briefly. “Speedball,” he answers hoarsely.

Speedball. Heroin and cocaine, potentially lethal even in a regular dosage and the cause of several notable deaths over the years. “It was Sebastian, right?” John clarifies before entering the room.

Mycroft’s gaze turns stormy. “Yes,” he says darkly, in a startling lapse from his default apathy. “That will be dealt with appropriately.”

“Good." John runs a hand over his face. "How is he?”

“Stable. He was lapsing in and out of consciousness earlier, but they have elected not to put him in an induced coma. Right now he is sedated.”

“Right. Okay.”

“He was remarkably proactive,” Mycroft says quietly. “The moment he realized what was inevitably going to happen, he texted me. It was horribly resentful and punctuated by expletives, as usual, but highly fortunate nonetheless.” Sounds like Sherlock.

“Why’d you let me in?” John wants to know.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow scornfully. “You are the only person I believe my brother comes close to loving,” he states as though it’s obvious. “I daresay that if anyone is to save him, it would be his precious John Watson.”

John’s head is reeling enough as it is. “Hang on,” he stammers,  _ “love?  _ He doesn’t love me. I don’t. Love isn’t... we’re friends. It’s not.”

Mycroft pays John’s pathetic ramblings no heed and instead pushes open the door. “I will be outside,” he says primly.

**

John enters the room cautiously. If he’s being honest, he’s petrified of what he might see. This is the man he’s lived with for over six months. The man who’s completely mental, who John yells at on a regular basis, who kept showing up in John's life before staying for good. Who John l...

No, he’s not going there. Sherlock surely doesn’t believe in love. And, after a long string of premature ‘I love you's, John is a firm believer that ‘love’ doesn't happen that quickly. But _t_ _hat's_ a crisis for him to deal with another day. A day in which Sherlock is not lying on a hospital bed. 

Now is as good a time as any.  John walks over to the bed and sucks in a breath.

Sherlock is pale and so disturbingly still that John’s heart aches. He’s been losing weight, but he often does and John hadn’t been overly concerned. Bandages wrap around his right forearm from the forced administration. Apparently Sebastian, who was high out of his mind, had attacked Sherlock with the syringe.

“You’re mad,” John says, swallowing down tears that are entirely uncalled for. “Utterly insane. You  _ idiot,”  _ and he reaches for Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it tight. He’s never seen the detective so vulnerable, and he never wants to again.

John stands, stricken, at Sherlock’s side for a long time. Shaking his head in far more pain than the stoic courageous doctor in him feels is acceptable, he braces himself with hands flat against the edge of the hospital bed, head bowed over Sherlock’s prone body, and tries not to cry.

**

Of  _ course _ the room is the hospital equivalent of a deluxe hotel suite. It features remarkably comfortable chairs, a massive flat-screen TV, a refrigerator, snacks and amenities, and Sherlock’s mattress is one of those foam squishy types with the remote. They’re expensive—John should know, because when he dislocated his shoulder a couple years ago he looked into getting a more comfortable mattress.

Not the point.

Sherlock stirs a few times and murmurs something, but doesn't come out of his state yet. He's probably exhausted to boot, anyway, and has (in John's humble opinion, as an advocate of more than two hours of sleep on average per night) hours of sleep to catch up on.

Sherlock is going to have a long and painful recovery ahead of him—and not just coming out of his sedated state. Miracles happen; however, if he _isn't_  looking at withdrawal and rehab, John will be shocked. This is not to mention the emotional repercussions. Much as the stubborn detective likes to believe he doesn’t feel things, there is no way he could sustain an assault like this free of any emotional damage.

One thing is for certain. Even though he may not  _ love _ Sherlock, and even though Sherlock has angered him over and over again in their time together, John will be there through it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided on weekly updates for this fic. I got caught up in work and other writing projects, so apologies for the slow down. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos always appreciated.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It used to feel like electricity when Sherlock opened his mouth and made those trademark cutting remarks or rapid fire deductions. Now... it’s just silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke the G rating by one f-bomb in the chapter. My bad. I assume readers won't be too offended.

April, Part II

Sherlock wakes up when John is asleep in the surprisingly comfortable chair. The doctor is so exhausted he somehow sleeps through an entire conversation between Mycroft and Sherlock, and only wakes up when Mycroft cuffs him on the shoulder with his stupid umbrella. 

“Sod off,” John grumbles; then, blinking and realizing that Sherlock is sitting up, cries, “Sherlock!” 

“John,” Sherlock says in an unfamiliar tone of voice. Mycroft shoots his brother a look that manages to be simultaneously painfully impassive and extremely judgmental. Sherlock glowers. “Leave me alone, Mycroft.”

“I said nothing,” Mycroft says primly.

“Oh please,” scoffs Sherlock. “Don't condescend to me.”

“Good evening, John,” Mycroft says with a regal nod. With one last critical glance at his brother, he sweeps out of the room.

“How are you?” John asks. He's so accustomed to bizarre Holmes interactions that he's stopped trying to parse out whatever's been very clearly spoken but unsaid. 

“Speedball, was it?” Sherlock asks keenly, craning his neck to peer at his forearm. “Sebastian never did do things by halves.”

“How are you okay?” John asks, gaping at the fact that Sherlock can be so casual about the entire situation. 

Sherlock shrugs. “Another round of rehab, then.”

John clenches his jaw, frustration inexplicably rearing its head and then turning rapidly into anger. This man just drives him _insane._ “How,” John asks levelly, “can you be so blasé about this?”

“Blasé?” Sherlock repeats mildly. “I believe it's called ‘accepting’.”

“So—so you're just going to accept that this is how it is?” John sputters. You _accept_ having to work a late shift when you have the flu. You _accept_ having to pay your insurance deductible when you get into a fender bender. You _accept_ having to suffer through an uncomfortable family gathering. You  _accept_ not being able to date the person you want to date. Sherlock is sitting and talking and appears alright, except he isn't, he's just gotten a near lethal injection of near fatal drugs and he's already got a history of addiction. 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. As though John is the unreasonable one. “I seem to recall, on multiple occasions, you going on an increasingly animated tirade about my so-called childish tantrums when things don't go as I plan. I expected you to be pleased.”

“Pleased—are you—with _what?”_

“Not with this,” Sherlock says dismissively, gesturing to his arm, “but with my tacit acceptance of my fate. I presume you'll be seeking alternate living arrangements, of course, and Mycroft will—”

“Hang on!” John says more forcefully than intended. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, before taking a deep breath. “I'm not moving out.”

Sherlock looks surprised. Surprised that John isn't jumping ship. How could he possibly think John would leave? “Oh,” the detective says.

“Yes, oh,” John snaps. “I just thought you'd be, I dunno, fighting it. Or rehab. Or something.”

“I have, as I believe the saying goes, dug my own grave.” 

“No,” John says vehemently, “no, you haven't. You haven't, because Sebastian Moran stuck a _fucking_ needle into your arm and—and you weren't asking for it. You weren't.”

Sherlock turns inexplicably sad all of a sudden. “No,” he says, “I was. I wasn't always... whatever I have become, in my time with you. I have done unforgivable things. There is a reason I have forged histories with the likes of Sebastian. I am not proud of my past, John, and I am ready to pay the price.”

John’s head is spinning. This is so not how he imagined this conversation would go. “You're just sitting down and taking it?”

Sherlock's fingers twitch agitatedly. “I'm not,” he says sharply. 

John is unraveling. “Well, yeah, you are! You're acting like it was fine and normal to have been assaulted like that, and sitting in your cozy little hospital bed with a thousand wires coming off of you and a bandage wrapped round your arm!” he shouts. 

“I. Am. Not,” Sherlock hisses. 

“You are, you bloody well are, and I can't fathom why you... god, Sherlock,” John groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don't know what to do. I just didn't think you'd do this.”

“Do what?”

“Act like this is okay, like you're okay with this!”

“And what am I supposed to say?” Sherlock snarls, eyes flashing. “Am I supposed to say, yes, John, you are precisely correct, I despise myself and the reason I am here with every fiber of my being, and I would be delighted to to bash Sebastian Moran's head in with a club? That yes, I am in excruciating pain and well aware of the suffering this will entail? Is that really what you want to hear?”

John pauses. “Yes,” he responds shortly. 

Before Sherlock can shoot back, the door opens just a crack and a face peers in. “Knock knock,” Mrs. Hudson says timidly. 

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson. Do come in,” Sherlock says calmly. John flings his arms outward: what the bloody hell is happening?

“How are you, darling?” she asks, trotting over to Sherlock’s bedside. “I was terribly worried when I heard.”

“Not to worry, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says airily. John gnashes his teeth. He sits up slightly and pecks Mrs. Hudson on the cheek. “Thank you. Your concern is noted.”

“Will you be coming home?” their landlady asks anxiously.

Sherlock falters. “I suspect I may be absent for a spell.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face falls. 

“Well,” John says loudly, “I’m knackered.”

“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Hudson says empathetically, squeezing John’s hand in support. “I just wanted to pop by, but why don’t we split a cab, you poor thing, you must have been worried sick,” she tuts. “Goodbye, Sherlock!” 

John grabs his jacket and follows her out the door, refusing to look at Sherlock.

**

The next four months are grueling. Sherlock undergoes three lengthy stints in treatment, with only 72 hours in between the last two stays. John visits when he can, but each time Sherlock gives short responses in a quiet, subdued voice lacking the edge that always quivered in the undertone of his words. It used to feel like electricity when Sherlock opened his mouth and made those trademark cutting remarks or rapid fire deductions. Now... it’s just silent.

John keeps up his practice at MGH, abhorring the monotony of it all and the absence of the one source of energy in his life.  His greatest fear now is that that energy will dull and never be the same again. He  _ likes _ Sherlock’s intensity. If Sherlock is going to become a complacent, calm, rational person, John doesn’t know what he’ll do. The detective’s alarming response to his predicament in the hospital was frightening enough. It's like watching a technicolor film with swelling orchestra fade rapidly into sepia tones and silent reels.

Finally, Sherlock is home for good. The hospital advocated wraparound therapy for him; unsurprisingly, he resisted, and Mycroft gave a terrific speech about picking battles, so everyone backed off. John finds himself sleeping better, regardless of his misgivings, with Sherlock in the apartment—though that probably would go for  _ anyone _ being home, he reasons quickly. Whatever ties or obligations he may have felt for the detective have decidedly dissipated.

Why exactly he feels so offended by Sherlock’s turnaround is a mystery to himself, and something he grapples with more often than he cares to admit. He catches himself (out of habit, obviously) casting yearning looks Sherlock’s way every so often. Sherlock moves about the apartment smoothly, preparing meals (since when does he do  _ that?)  _ and playing his violin. He reads the paper, doesn’t solve any crimes, and barely speaks to John.

"Sorry about that, bro," Greg says sympathetically over a much-needed pint.

John shakes his head wearily. "I don't know what to do."

Greg shrugs. "Neither do I." 

"Helpful," John comments.

There's a brief pause in which both men take a swig of alcohol and try to get their lives together. Then Greg says, "I think Molly's cheating on me."

"Are you kidding me?" John asks.

Greg shakes his head mournfully. "She's been acting just  _weird._ But if I confront her, it'll start a whole fight about _trust,_ and if I don't confront her and she's having an affair, well, I'm not _that_ stupid." He sighs. "I don't know what to do."

John shrugs. "Neither do I." He  can't help but laugh, because this entire situation is so convoluted and absolutely ridiculous.

"Yeah, sounds about right," his best friend replies.

John raises his pint. "Well, best of luck to us both."

**

_ Sherlock watches John, and it breaks his nonexistent heart. _

_ Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. He warned John about that, all those months ago on the ski lift. Back before everything happened. _

_ There are things Sherlock has done that he will never forgive himself for. He has not murdered, he has not seriously harmed another human being. But he has been unfaithful to everything he knows he believes in, he has been horrifically self-destructive, and he has been selfish.  _

_ Sebastian wasn’t supposed to be there. Sherlock realized the trap instantly, and he did text Mycroft. The thing is, he also could have run. _

_ But he didn’t. He walked straight into the belly of the beast.  _

_ John’s face had flickered in his mind’s eye as he succumbed to the ruthless assault. John's voice had echoed in his ears, dimming the sirens. The whisper of John's hideous oatmeal jumper and the accidental brush of his hand against Sherlock every so often burned into his skin even as the paramedics tore open his clothes to administer emergency medical aid. _

_ John is the greatest man Sherlock has ever known. _

_ Sherlock, in comparison, will never be truly good. _

_ It is this knowledge that quiets him. John thinks it’s to do with something else, with rehab or some sort of shift in Sherlock, and has no idea that this is all for and because of him. Which leaves the problem: he didn’t seem to like it when Sherlock was out of control, so it stands to reason that a subdued Sherlock would be preferable. However, John hasn’t been overly receptive to that either, leaving Sherlock caught between a rock and a hard place. There's no way to win. _

_ John Watson is going to be his undoing. _

_ So Sherlock mentally convinces himself to break all ties with the doctor. His mind palace has been in disarray since before the Sebastian incident—since he first admitted to the secret shame that Mycroft had so obviously called him on in the hospital bed. His brother's expression said it all, had it painted across Sherlock's forehead in neon colors: WEAK. _

_ Now... now, in his helplessly fumbling brain, Sherlock concludes that the solution is to leave. Not to move out. But to get up and walk out of the room in his mind palace that had been John’s, all John’s, since their first encounter. And so Sherlock does just that one evening as he watches John’s brow furrow over a report and fights the rush of fondness that threatens to overwhelm. Sitting in his chair pretending to gaze into the fire, the world’s only consulting detective shuts the door and throws the key away where nobody can ever find it, even him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this got angsty. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> We have Janine coming up next chapter and jealous John, so that will be enjoyable (hopefully).


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then Sherlock disappears for a few days and reappears with a girl. Janine. John has the pleasure of meeting her when he arrives home after a work trip to an attractive woman with wet hair who is wearing Sherlock’s shirt and obviously nothing else.
> 
> What the hell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a day late! Enjoy jealous John.

August 

Things are still weird, but after one evening in which John is stressing over a bunch of reports Sherlock seems to bounce back slightly from whatever disturbingly subdued state he was in. He’s still uncomfortably polite with John, but he moves around much more often and even starts taking cases again.

Then Sherlock disappears for a few days and reappears with a girl. Janine. John has the pleasure of meeting her when he arrives home after a work trip to an attractive woman with wet hair who is wearing Sherlock’s shirt and obviously nothing else.

_What the hell?_

“Hello,” she says cheerfully when John walks in. He can hear the bath splash down the hall and quickly realizes Sherlock is probably in there. “I’m Janine.”

No. Nope. Sherlock doesn’t date. Sherlock isn’t... well, John’s never been sure of his sexuality, because they’re roommates and it would be entirely inappropriate to even consider it. But John is relatively certain Sherlock isn’t interested in women. Or men. Or anyone. Or John.

“You must be John,” Janine trills.

“Yeah,” John answers curtly, and slams his bag down on the table with much more force than necessary.

“Oops,” she giggles. John clenches his fists.

“Where's Sherlock?” he asks.

“He's indisposed at the moment,” Janine answers, smirking.

John strides past her and raps on the bathroom door. “Busy,” Sherlock intones lazily.

“Get out, then!”

“Where's Janine?”

John fumes. “Half-naked in our kitchen!”

“Send her in here.”

Jesus Christ. If Sherlock is about to shag his new girlfriend in _their_ bathtub _while_ John is home... “No,” John says firmly. He reaches for the doorknob before realizing what exactly he's about to do. Bursting in unannounced on his roommate in the bath probably won't end well for a myriad of reasons. So, flexing his fingers, John shoves his hands in his pockets and storms back into the kitchen.

“Is he coming?” Janine asks with a sly smile. The double entendre isn't missed on John, who flares his nostrils and takes a sharp breath through his nose.

“He's busy,” John responds shortly.

“I would say so,” Janine counters. She winks at him.

Muttering to himself about the absurdity of the situation, John stomps over to the Keurig—reserved only for desperate times when he cannot even maintain enough dignity to wait for proper tea—checks for suspicious substances and eyeballs, and savagely shoves an English breakfast tea pod into it.

“He talks about you,” Janine pipes up from behind John. He freezes, hands resting on the countertop, but says nothing. “In bed.”

John turns around. “Come again?”

“Oh, he's great at sex, but his pillow talk is a little weird.”

John has to suppress a smile. Dammit! He should be angry. It's just that the thought of a post-coital Sherlock blabbering on about beheaded corpses strikes him as endearing more than anything.

He shouldn't be thinking of post-coital Sherlock at all.

“I'm not surprised,” John says levelly. Tea streams into his cup; he tosses the pod in the trash and makes for the stairs. “If you don't mind.” Janine dutifully steps to the side.

Later, holed up with paperwork and music blasting to drown out the sound of Sherlock and Janine loudly flirting downstairs, John can't help but wonder if Janine was telling the truth and if, in fact, Sherlock does talk a lot about him.

**

_“Did it work?” Janine asks Sherlock at coffee the next morning. “Is he jealous? He looked like he was going to have a conniption when he walked in.”_

_“I don't know,” Sherlock replies, sliding a check over to her._

_“Oh, don't worry about it,” she says dismissively. “Happy to help. You really like him?”_

_Sherlock nods hesitantly. “Not in as many words.”_

_“Okay, well, you like him as much as Sherlock Holmes can willingly admit he likes someone.” Janine pauses. “I still wouldn't be opposed to actual sex. Just for the record.”_

_Sherlock gives a small smile over the rim of his cup. “I'm afraid I will have to disappoint you yet again.”_

_Janine leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on his lips. “It was good seeing you. Call anytime,” she says, and leaves._

_Sherlock sips his coffee and stares down at the gingham tablecloth, thinking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short! Back to smaller montage-y moments from their life, but there will be more soon.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janine ends, much to John’s relief.
> 
> However, he walks into the apartment one day to find Sherlock and a man on the couch in the living room. Making out. Hardcore.
> 
> Nope.
> 
> Nope nope nope nope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is almost a week late!

September

Janine ends, much to John’s relief.

However, he walks into the apartment one day to find Sherlock and a  _ man _ on the couch in the living room. Making out. Hardcore.

Nope.

Nope nope nope nope.

First of all, that breaks every rule of roommate etiquette and common courtesy in the book.

Second of all, Sherlock doesn’t  _ do _ that stuff... does he? Janine was a mere flirtation. Right?

Third of all, no. Just. No. This is so not okay, on so many levels, and really it’s just the principle of the thing, isn’t it? It’s just wrong. John isn’t gay. He isn’t. Sherlock, apparently, is. Unless he’s playing around with this man and it means nothing. But they are definitely, definitely rapidly overtaking second base. In fact, as John’s eyes rove over the scene in horror, he realizes that Sherlock’s shirt is already halfway unbuttoned.

He isn’t even sure what to do, deciding that out of fight or flight, flight sounds better at present, when Sherlock’s eyes open and bore right into John’s. The strange man has his back to John and doesn’t see.

John feels like he might actually be sick. As Sherlock watches (while getting his mouth plundered by this tall dark handsome stranger), John spins around on his heel and leaves. 

**

_ Victor is a genuinely interesting one. He's bright, calculating, and kind. Sherlock picked him up at the bar last night and thus far has had no regrets about it. In fact, he's objectively enjoying the evening's proceedings when John comes home. Just as he anticipated, John looks panicked, then angry, then  _ disgusted,  _ and leaves. Victor is none the wiser.  _

_ Sherlock decides to sleep with Victor out of intrigue and basic human need. It hadn't been in the plan, but neither had John Watson.  _

_ “You're in love with someone else,” Victor says sadly when they wake up. _

_ Sherlock can't lie. _

_ “I can't do no strings attached. I like you,” Victor continues. “Someday I'll find someone.” _

_ Sherlock feels extremely guilty. “I am sorry.” _

_ “No, it's fine. You didn't lead me on. I just... you're a really amazing person.” _

_ “Ha,” Sherlock scoffs bitterly. _

_ “No, I'm serious. Whoever they are, they'll be lucky to have you.”  _

_ But it’s really the other way around. Sherlock is lucky, beyond lucky, to have John. “Perhaps you could tell them that for me,” Sherlock suggests lightly.  _

_ Victor smiles and reaches across Sherlock for his clothes, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s bony shoulder. It's achingly sweet—no one has treated Sherlock with such care and domesticity before—but tragically misplaced. If anything, he is only getting a painful taste of what he may never receive from John, and Victor is getting a painful taste of what he will never receive from Sherlock.  _

_ Feelings are miserable. Ever since Sherlock came to terms with his for John, he has thought that perhaps things would work out such that either he didn't care or a relationship smoothly came to fruition. Then, of course, Sebastian had to go and ruin things. But now it is Sherlock who finds himself reluctantly hurting others in his pursuit of a man who's only ever dated women and who visibly dislikes most aspects of Sherlock’s person. _

_ Sherlock tried to be quieter, more subdued, to talk less. His time in treatment was grueling but gave way to some uncomfortable soul-searching. That’s when he decided to test whether John might actually prefer a smaller presence in a roommate. But John didn’t seem to like that either, instead casting him concerned and frustrated looks all the time and offering uncharacteristically stony responses. _

_ Sherlock wonders why he’s doing all of this. John isn’t interested. There are other men out there, should Sherlock actually seek a partner. Then again, does he need one? He has John, and he simply can’t imagine being with anyone else. John is the be-all, end-all. Without meaning for it to happen, without being able to catch his heart before it flew out of his chest and landed in the doctor’s unknowing hands, Sherlock has fallen. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to make his way back up. _

**

The mystery man disappears, much to John’s relief. At this point he’s mostly given up on rationalizing and making excuses. Feelings or not, he’s hopelessly attracted to Sherlock, and even imagining him with anyone else incites hot spikes of jealousy that John has thus far managed to tamp down.

It can’t happen, though. Obviously. Sherlock has made it abundantly clear that he has options beside his beaten down, ‘but he’s got a great personality’ roommate.

So John goes on his way, goes about his life, bickers with Sherlock about eyeballs and appendages, and tries unsuccessfully to move on with his life, convincing himself all the while that it’s ever enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another actual plot event is coming up. This is more of a montage-y fic, though, so there's no specific continuous plot but rather a lot of different moments in their relationship.
> 
> I've set the chapter count to 30, but that's definitely subject to change.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's mum dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my absence! Break has started, so hopefully even with work I will have the energy to get a few chapters up in the meantime.

October

John’s mum dies. 

He doesn't know what to do, particularly given their turbulent relationship, and he calls on his best mate. But Greg and Molly are on holiday abroad, and while Greg offers to use his international minutes to talk to John, John knows that ultimately, Molly has taken his place. He is no longer number one in his best friend’s life: that’s how these things go. It’s fine.

When John gets home from work, exhausted and in inexplicable physical pain, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Good. The last thing he needs is his nosy roommate making rude comments.

But then that nosy roommate comes down the stairs, sees John, and stops.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says quietly.

John definitely isn’t choking up. “You... you know,” he says in an unsteady voice.

Sherlock looks at him with confusion and fear and something like secondhand pain. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

John stands there awkwardly, nodding like an idiot and taking deep breaths, before desperately he crosses the room to Sherlock and Sherlock meets him halfway. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, what they’re doing, except he realizes all of a sudden that Greg hasn’t been his best friend in a long time. It’s been Sherlock all along.

Sherlock’s arms slowly come around John, one gripping his waist and the other hand cradling the back of John’s head.  _ That's  _ when the tears spill. It’s not very manly to cry or hug, and John can count on one hand the number of times he’s engaged in this sort of emasculating behavior. But Sherlock breaks all the rules, and John doesn’t bother trying to be manly because Sherlock wouldn’t know one way or the other.

“I'm sorry, I'm being a sap,” John sniffles, pulling away. 

“No,” Sherlock says shockingly gently, and tugs John back into his arms, resting his cheek lightly on John’s head and tightening his grip ever so slightly. Where on earth this came from John does not know but god did he need it.

Sherlock relinquishes him first. Which is a good thing, because John is knackered and emotional and otherwise would probably have stood in the middle of the room clinging onto his bizarre roommate for hours.

“Tea?” Sherlock offers softly.

“If it’s  _ just  _ tea, then yes,” John agrees.

“I cleaned the kettle earlier this evening. I can assure you all is in order.”

John narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You never clean. Why did you clean?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I knew you were upset.”

“So you cleaned the tea kettle.”

Sherlock goes from confused to utterly annoyed. “Yes, John, and while you are an emotional puddle for perfectly justifiable reasons, if you keep bringing our conversations full circle like you used to, I—”

“Oh, shut up,” John says, stifling a chuckle. Sherlock wrinkles up his nose in confusion (it’s almost cute), then turns and sweeps into the kitchen.

**

There are awkward condolences at work. John considers taking bereavement days, but what’s eating him isn’t sorrow over the death, but rather dismay over his  _ lack _ of upset. He ought to be upset that his mum died. The fact that he isn’t worries him; what if he is becoming as callous and unfeeling as Sherlock?

Except Sherlock hasn’t been callous or unfeeling lately. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say that his roommate has come to  _ care _ about him, more than Greg or any of his normal friends do. Which is ridiculous, of course. Sherlock doesn’t care much about anyone without an ulterior motive. John tries not to perseverate on it too much.

Either way, the experience seems to have brought the two of them closer. Not that they weren’t already unreasonably close, mostly due to Sherlock’s utter lack of boundaries. But this is the first time it seems like a mutual bond rather than a nosy roommate and disgruntled but obliging doctor who might as well wear his heart on his damn sleeve. They laugh more; Sherlock appears more comfortable and relaxed—at least for longer periods of time before bounding off into the great unknown, ever a force to be reckoned with. The near-death experiences are consistent as always.

Still, one particularly nasty case shatters John’s resolve. He just isn’t so fond of Sherlock almost drowning right after nearly being decapitated by a machete-wielding psychopath. Apparently John has been desensitized to seeing a gun pressed to his best friend’s head, but this is a new threat and the thugs are intimidating masterminds. With Sherlock’s help, the BPD swiftly gets the attacker and the accomplices who’d attempted to drown Sherlock when he took it upon himself to hunt them down in the shipyard. Sherlock takes a shower at a nearby hotel and finally stops shivering. After the usual revolving door of reporters and police officers, the two are released.

If John hovers a little closer to Sherlock on the way home, neither one of them seems to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Welcome to the new readers and welcome back to the old ones, if you've stuck around patiently this long :)

**Author's Note:**

> Be warned this is a slow burn friends to lovers fic which will feature other relationships between John and Sherlock and other people and corresponding jealousy...which I believe is fairly normal for a fic, but as fair warning.


End file.
